


Glitter in the Air

by newdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newdisaster/pseuds/newdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Close your eyes and trust it. Just trust it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> A song fic covering from a few months after Reichenbach and then some. Warnings: mature audiences only, graphic sexual content, suicide, thoughts of suicide, major character death. I do not own BBC Sherlock, it's characters, or the song this is based off of. 
> 
> Yes, I changed the lyrics a bit. But it wasn't on purpose. I genuinely thought those were the lyrics and the site I used did too. They are not. BUT OH WELL.

_Have you ever felt a lover was just your hands?_

            Three months, now, he realized. It had been three months since anyone had gone past the second date and six months since he'd sex of any kind. It was officially a problem. It made his forehead crease in frustration and his mouth was becoming familiar with a discontented frown.

            John shut the door to his room and lifted his jumper over his head. The material of his white T-shirt clung to his skin, so he pulled at the edges of it to loosen it up. He kicked off his shoes and sat down to remove his socks.

            Everything felt like it took way more energy than was necessary. By the time he'd discarded his socks to the hamper, he was exhausted. He fell onto the bed and groaned. Why did he every even leave the comfort and safety of his mattress? He moved to the centre of his bed. It was unusual, since he was prone to sleeping on one side, but it felt somewhat liberating. The duvet was pleasantly warm beneath him and he could feel tension dissolving and melting into the bed. He was warm and content, perhaps even happy.

            Of course, it was then that it nudged at him: a growing need. He'd neglected to do anything for so long, but now with this moment of peace, his body reminded him that it had needs.

            John's eyelids fell in defeat. He'd come so close.

 

_Close your eyes and trust it_

            He began unceremoniously, bitter that he had to do this on his own and frustrated that he had to at all. He shot both his hands down to undo the buttons on his trousers. John thought about removing them, but it was too much effort. He lifted his hips and slid his jeans down a few inches. Looking down, he sighed. His erection was already half way there and he hadn't even thought of anything to cause it.

            Pushing his pants down in the front, he then pulled his cock out, but did nothing at first. He made a few light, slow touches, keeping his eyes closed and focusing on the feeling. 

            He had to focus on the physical sensations or it would happen again and he could not have that.

            The stimulation began working him up enough that he moved on. He licked his palm, then wrapped his hand around his cock and began moving languidly from base to tip. The slow pace matched his breathing, which he was suddenly having trouble keeping even.

            It only took a few minutes before he felt the warning signs. His mind provided momentary flashes and visions and it shocked him so much that he accidentally tightened his grip. The resulting pull made his back arch fractionally.

            No. This would not happen again.

            John brought images to his mind; past girlfriends, super models, and various celebrities made their way beneath his eyelids. He thought of some of the porn he had watched and tried to keep that in the forefront.

            But it wasn't Halle Berry's hand that he imagined and felt snaking up under his shirt. It wasn't a busty blonde who was running her fingers over the skin of his stomach. They weren't the soft touches of a playboy bunny. They were violinist's hands. They were both delicate and certain, and they were experts at breaking John into pieces.

            The floodgates of forbidden thought opened and all John could picture now was a torrential wave of sensuality. He could almost feel it: his body pressed against another, frantic kisses, tongues lazily dragging over each other's necks, hard and straining cocks rutting against each other in desperation.

            It was the hands, however, that were making John start to feel the beginning of his orgasm build.

            He imagined his own hand on his lover's hip. As his lover would thrust, longing for friction, John would feel the muscles in his hip move. He could practically feel the gentle slide of long, knowledgeable fingers moving up his chest, over his shoulders, and down his back. They would grip at his arse, kneading and pulling closer. He even allowed himself to think about those fingers tightly gripping the headboard, holding on for dear life.

            John was so close now and his body was crying for release. His heels ground into the mattress for some sort of purchase. He had to climax. If he didn't, it would get even worse and he was already deep into his subconscious.

            His hand moved furiously, caressing each and every tender spot he knew that would get him off as soon as possible when he heard it.

            His own name, whispered by the lips of a familiar but forcibly forgotten baritone.

 

_Just trust it_

 

            Stars danced in front of his eyes as a mind-numbing orgasm ripped through his body. His back curved up and his calves flexed as he lifted off the mattress. John's head slammed into the pillows and his potentially echoing moan was cut off by his throat. He spilled onto his hand, visible evidence of a disgusting success.

            John grabbed a few tissues from his bedside and cleaned himself off. He then grabbed another tissue and wiped his eyes clear of the wetness that had fallen from them.

            An hour later, after lying on the bed curled into himself and possibly turning into a ball of nothing but self-loathing, John resigned that it was okay. It didn't matter anyways, did it?

            Sherlock was dead; what did he care?

            It was the thought he clung to before he fell into a deep sleep. By morning, it was back to being absolutely not okay and it wouldn't happen again.

            Everything in him knew that was a lie.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

_Have you ever thrown a fistful of glitter in the air?_

 

            "I'm pretty sure he had it, so if it was going to be anywhere, it would be with the rest of his things. Do you think you could locate it for me?"

            John smiled at Lestrade and laughed lightly.

            "Great! That means I have to brave going into his room."

            Lestrade laughed with him, at first. But then his smile slowly slid into a look John was all too familiar with: pity.

            John could understand the look immediately, though. One, he'd just revealed that the room lay preserved and unchanged, even after a year. Two, he'd called it his room, meaning not only hadn't the room itself changed, but neither had John's mindset.

            "The things we do in the line of duty," Lestrade said, his joking tone not matching his expression. John smiled at him. Lestrade was such a good man. Here he had identified a massively psychological problem and yet, out of respect and intuition, was attempting to allow John his peace and privacy and continue on as normal.

            "It's labelled Cold Cases?"

            "As far as I know, yeah."

            "Not a problem. Probably stashed away somewhere. I'll find it." John nodded and kept up a smile that he hoped was communicating his gratitude. Happily, Lestrade offered one back.

            "Thanks, John," He said, his tone a bit downtrodden.

            Turning away from him, John felt a twinge in his leg, but kept walking towards the kerb. He hailed a cab, not trusting himself to walk home after a few rounds of drinks with Greg, and sat there trying not to fall asleep.

            That night, he slipped up. He'd gone months without even thinking of Sherlock, and yet with a simple request, he fell back to square one. For the first time, the detective's name even made its way across John's lips in the peak of his climax. It represented a new low and brought up a repeated concern: was he ever going to get over this?

            The next morning was a rare one because it was bright out. The sun was shining and the air was beautifully pleasant. John made tea and read the paper in the kitchen, a grin somewhat plastered onto his face. Despite his failure the night before, the dew that had formed in the window and the sound of the birds made him feel loads better.

            He recalled Lestrade's request and knew that there was no better time than that. He gathered himself up and walked determinedly into Sherlock's bedroom. John did not pause for any sort of ceremony. It's not like it was the first time he'd been in Sherlock's room, anyways. He opened the door and made straight for the closet.

            There were a few boxes, he knew, hidden in a compartment underneath the floor. That would be where this file was. He opened the closet, instantly assaulted by a smell he thought would most definitely had faded by now. It hadn't. He fought against it though, pretending not to notice, and going to his knees.

            The compartment squeaked when he removed the lid and he grabbed at the files he found. There were two of them. Immediately, he found the one labelled "Cold Cases" and he set it aside.

            The other was called "Old Cases". John rolled his eyes for some reason and, out of curiosity, opened it up.

            Two things became immediately apparent. One was that it was really just a file of his old cases. Two was that there was glitter falling out of it.

            John caught the falling glitter in one hand and let the file sit on the floor. He opened it up to find the source and he went still when he saw it.

            It was a drawing. It had three stick figures standing next to each other in front of a house. One of the figures was rather tall and had a few blue lines around its neck. It had a long black rectangle drawn over its body and had spirals of black on its head. Next to it was a much smaller figure with long yellow lines for hair and a triangular pink shape over the body. Next to that depicted a body not much taller, with a yellow patch at the top of its head, a beige rectangle on the top half and two blue shapes at the bottom.

            The three figures were holding hands.

            John clutched at the fabric of his shirt where his heart was. The drawing had been from a very young girl named Cassandra. Her parents had been brutally killed and Sherlock had been called to the case. The awful discovery made was that their murder had almost been avoided. A sex-trafficking ring had tried to kidnap Cassandra and her parents had stood in the way. Two minutes after they were killed, the police had shown up. Sherlock had been bored by such a case, but as they were trying to stop the traffickers, he had been forced to participate.

            There was a part of John (a very quiet part) that was paternal. It had come from taking care of his older sister when he was younger. However, it had flipped on like a light switch when he'd seen Cassandra wrapped in the shock blanket. Sherlock be damned, he was going over to her. He'd crouched down and introduced himself. He hadn't smiled at her (why would you smile at a girl whose parents had just been killed) and he'd kept his tone at one he would use for an adult.

            Cassandra had asked him questions and he'd answered. He'd told her that Sherlock was going to catch the people who had done this. When she'd asked how, he found himself likening Sherlock to something of a super hero and telling her about his deduction abilities.

            It had been at that point that Sherlock walked over and the panic that hit John was tangible. Sherlock would not be kind. He would not be understanding. He would interrogate this little girl ruthlessly. John was two seconds from tackling his flatmate to avoid such a thing when Sherlock did the unthinkable. He simply knelt down and asked her what she knew about the crime. Cassandra had went quiet and seemed to be staring deep into his eyes. Then she nodded and told him everything. There were no tears. When she'd finished, he'd actually smiled at her and told her she had done a very good thing indeed. He told John it was time to leave and John had given her a small nod and a smile, but Cassandra went right in for a hug around his waist.

            "Thank you," she had said, "I wish you two could be my new daddies. You tell the truth instead of pretending. I'd have two superheroes for parents."

            John's heart threatened to melt, but when he'd looked at Sherlock, he thought he was going to literally become a puddle. John watched the man's face actually cave. Sherlock's expression had gone funny, like he was shocked, touched, and broken hearted at the same time.

            For a moment, John wished they could have been her new daddies too. He thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad being gay and living with Sherlock for the rest of his life. But it evaporated. He hugged her back and then watched with amusement as she hugged Sherlock. His mask had been reformed, but the tenderness of his returned embrace gave his heart away.

            A few days later, a drawing had shown up in their mailbox. Cassandra had drawn them all holding hands, her in the middle, with a house behind them. She'd written a short note in barely legible handwriting reiterating her wish. There had been glitter all over because she said that everything seemed sparkly and bright when she thought of living with them.

            Now, years later, the glitter was falling off. John tilted the drawing and all of the silver and blue glitter fell into his hands.

            Sherlock had kept this. Amongst all of his case notes and serious paperwork, he had kept a drawing from a broken child.

            John looked at the glitter in his hand and then clenched his fist. A few seconds of contemplation went by as to whether he should hang the drawing up. However, judging by the now gaping hole in his chest, it was probably a bad idea. He set the drawing back in the file and closed it, placing it into the compartment and standing up.

            The flat was silent. Then John's agonized scream rang out and he threw the contents of his hand out towards the room. It was unsatisfactory, of course, as it simply floated down. Some of it was stuck to the creases of his palm, which then got on his face when he put his head in his hands and wept openly.

            Sherlock was never going to let him live. Not while the smallest memories came back and make John wish he'd been the one to jump.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

_Have you ever looked fear in the face and said "I just don't care”_

 

            The store was bursting with far too many people for his liking, but the car park was blissfully empty of people. The bags on his arm were heavy and it was making it difficult to navigate between the rows of cars so he could reach the main road. The night was cold and he was getting a bit peeved at the lack of cabs on the road. This was London; there was always traffic.

            It was then that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, residual instincts from his army days. He was being watched.

            Unfortunately, something else had made him a little slower on the uptake. Before he could react, a man was pulling him from behind and in between a couple of larger vehicles. John tried to abandon his products and fend off his attacker, but the man seemed amiably prepared for whatever John would try.

            “Hold still, now, Watson,” the man ordered him and he felt the familiar press of a gun to his neck.

            This was not someone who just happened to know him. This was someone who had done his homework, if the restraint on his left arm was any indicator. That as well as his gun being withdrawn from the back of his trousers. He heard it tossed carelessly to the side.

            "You have a license to carry this, doctor?"

            "Soldier."

            "Pathetic."

            John took in a deep breath, considerably calm for his situation.

            "Did you want anything or did you just come here to insult me?"

            "I want many things, Dr. Watson." the man said, his voice low and rough. Smoker, John thought, probably over twenty years.

            "The first thing I want," his attacker continued, "is for you to know who I am." 

            He was manhandled expertly and turned around, the gun then pressed under his chin. He made to bring his hands up in what would look like surrender to an untrained man. This was not an untrained man.

            "Keep your hands down. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

            "Possibly."

            He got a hit to his temple with the gun for that, but he thought it was worth it.

            "My name," the man said, "is Colonel Sebastian Moran."

            The name was extremely familiar. It took less than a second for John to remember how he knew it.

            "The boys talked about you up at the front. Young man with deadshot aim. Finest marksman in the east, I heard. You were up for quite a few awards."

            "Those days are long gone. They shipped me home."

            "What happened?"

            "I got shot."

            John clenched his jaw. Moran rolled his neck.

            "I came home and got very low. I was so...bored! There was nothing that this life had to offer me anymore. I didn't want the things I'd wanted before the war. It wasn't like I was an invalid; it was just this damn leg. So I limped around London pretending I didn't notice that I was wasting away into a nothing. Then I met Jim."

            An overwhelming sense of eeriness overcame John as he took note of the terrifying parallels of Moran's story to his. It took the name Jim for all of the pieces to fall in place.

            "And he brought you back onto the battlefield."

            "You're damn right, he did," Moran cracked a smile, "Oh everything! It was absolutely fucking mental, but that was Jim's way, wasn't it? I found what I'd been looking for," he paused and then, seeming to make a decision held his chin up, "I found that and more in Jim."

            John narrowed his eyes. Moran nodded his head at John.

            "You, too, then?"

            "I don't know what you're implying."

            "That we're the same, John," Moran said, "and we really are. Everything about us is the same. I suppose I’m just the darker side, if you believe in that sort of thing. We’re just like them, too. I am the James Moriarty to your Sherlock Holmes."

            "If you want us to engage in the utter nonsense that was their game, you're going to be disappointed." Moran rolled his eyes. 

            "No, don't be obvious," he readjusted the gun on John's jugular and the forearm across his chest, "I don't want that at all."

            "What do you want?" John dared, narrowing his eyes. Moran licked his lips.

            "You didn't realize it either, did you? Not until he was long dead and buried."

            There was a brief moment of silence before John knew that there was absolutely no point in pretending he didn't understand exactly what Moran meant.

            "No."

            Moran nodded slowly and then let out a strangled laugh. 

            "I'm not gay," he said.

            "Nor am I." John assured him.

            "Look at us both."

            John's eye twitched.

            "Is there a reason you decided to have this little chat?"

            Moran's eye twitched.

            "There's not, is there? You just wanted to know that you weren't alone."

            "It's nice to know someone else has that similar gaping hole in their chest, yeah. I've never been one for touchy feely bullshit, but after a year of driving myself bonkers, I thought I'd call you up."

            "And now that you know?"

            At first, Moran said nothing, then his head fell.

            "I thought I'd hate you. I mean, I was the one assigned to blow your fucking head off. I thought because I hated Sherlock so much that I would loathe you. You, his little pet. But I don't."

            "Well, I'm glad we--"

            "But I still don't want you alive anymore."

            A layer of ice hit the center of John's heart. He did say anything. He just started shaking his head and laughing bitterly. Moran glared at him.

            "What? What’s so funny?"

            "Colonel, I haven't been alive in a very long time."

            The revelation hit John like a brick. He wasn't scared of death. He wasn't afraid to die. The worst part was he truly couldn't will himself to feel anything about that fact. He was resigned to it.

            A slow nod of understanding was Moran's only reply. Suddenly, John saw it. He knew that look. He'd seen it during the war far too many times. It was a look young, inexperienced privates would get after a bloody battle, He saw the eyes of a man who did not want to see anymore.

            John slowly brought his hands up and wrapped them around the one Moran had on the gun. Moran let him.

            "I would have probably made you tea, you know."

            "That wouldn't have cut it for me."

            "All right, then, whiskey or scotch. Maybe toss back a few beers."

            "We'd sit in the dark and talk about our dead man and how they ruined our lives."

            "No," John shook his head, "how they saved them."

            The ghost of tears touched Moran's eyes and he gave one curt, short nod.

            "Captain."

            Despite John's frantic attempt to get the gun from Moran's hand, the Colonel was quick and strong and he pulled the gun from John's head to his own and pulled the trigger. Blood spattered John's face as Moran's lifeless body fell to the pavement.

            John's eyes closed, willing this not to be happening again. But when he opened them, Moran was lying there, gun still clutched in his hand, and the hint of a bitter smile on his face.

            He called Lestrade and then leaned against the van behind him. The groceries lay abandoned.

            Maybe John should take up smoking, he thought.

            He exploded, punched the door to the metal van, and then slid onto the ground.

            While their lives had paralleled in many ways, John tried to tell himself that this would not be one of them. Moran had had Moriarty, but John had had Sherlock and, unlike Moriarty, he knew Sherlock would want John to be better than that. He owed Sherlock that much.

            No, he thought, he didn’t. Sherlock had up and left him without a word of warning. It was John’s life now, wasn’t it? He could do with it what he pleased, even if that meant ending it.

            Sherlock was dead; what did he care?

            John didn't.

 

_It's only half past the point of no return._

 

            He took a cab until he was a few blocks from home. It was cold. It was freezing cold. As if ice was covering his face, his cheeks and nose had almost gone numb.

            John very much doubted that his current state had much to do with the actual weather.

            It wasn't like he had known Moran, but it certainly felt that way. The slow, crawling frigidness that was tearing through his circulatory system was making him feel as though he had just lost a friend of many years. Perhaps it had been the haunting similarities between the two men that was causing this.

            He was lying to himself, of course. He was pretending that he was ignorant to what was causing his disgruntlement.

            John knew exactly what was plaguing his mind and he then acknowledged that it was fruitless to act otherwise. Moran had spelled out how he and John were identical, in situation, in history, and in mind, and then he had put a bullet through his head. Effectively, he had shown John what he could end up doing. It had brought about old fears from the early days after Sherlock's death: that John would no longer find any reason to live and sink into a zombie-like state (which, admittedly, he had done) and that one day it would become too much--that one day, John would end it.

            Is that what he wanted to do?

            He should know the answer to that question, but he didn't. It was stupid, really. Here he was, a full grown man, contemplating suicide over one little death. There was a future ahead of him, if he really tried. He could actually try to pave that road. He could meet a woman, get married, have a couple of kids, move into a nice home, start up a private practice, retire by age 65, and die a contented man.

            As he made the list in his head, it sent a shock in his system to realize two things. One, he was utterly certain that he would die contented, but not truly happy. The second revelation was that he could meet a woman and get married but, for some reason, he could not see "fall in love" being in his plans.

            John stopped walking, standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk.

            He knew by then, of course. It was far too late, but he knew now that he had loved Sherlock in some fashion. Whether it was romantically or not, part of his heart belonged to the consulting detective. On the darkest nights, during the quietest hours, when he was sure that not even he could hear him, he allowed himself to admit that he had been in love. Clueless to it at the time, but he had been hopelessly in love with Sherlock, devoted beyond lovers and patient beyond husbands.

            However, he had not previously considered the possibility that the love he had for Sherlock was so extensive that he may have never love like that again.

            Had he given his heart, his soul, his whole being away without even knowing it?

            The air was freezing still, but it was no match for the arctic storm that swarmed his heart and decided his fate.

 

_The tip of the iceberg_

 

            Pulling the zipper of his coat up higher and turning his collar to the biting wind, John kept on, passing a couple walking down the sidewalk. It was funny how, to them, he was simply a passing stranger. They didn't know his name or his age. They had no idea the life he had lived to that point. They didn't have any clue that the seemingly harmless man they had just passed was a trained killer, competent marksman, and highly skilled doctor. The couple had no inkling that the man they had just passed was going to go home, sit on his bed, put a gun to his head, and pull the trigger.

            Mrs. Hudson was out, thankfully. He didn't want to do this if she was home, in case she had to discover his body. He would text Lestrade beforehand.

            A small, desperate part of his brain pleaded with him to reconsider; there was a possible future he was abandoning. Was this really worth it? He was a soldier, damn it, and death should not get to him this way. It was not as if Sherlock was the first man he'd watched kill himself. Why did this one really matter? They'd only known each other for a little over a year and here John was suddenly willing to give up a good forty years of his life away.

            Then again, his conscious admitted, John had been willing to give up his life for Sherlock before.

            But it was different this time. He wasn't giving up his life for Sherlock. He wasn't doing it for anyone but himself, ending the vision of a dull future and ridding himself of the weight he usually tried to ignore.

            Sherlock would not want him to do this.

            Sherlock was dead; what did he care?

 

_The sun before the burn_

 

            John took off his coat and his shoes and walked into his room. The dark and black of it, barely lit by the moon, greeted him and he decided to leave the lights off. It was not as though he need them to kill himself anyways.

            This would be messy, so it was best to make sure he fell back on the bed. He sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled his gun out from his back (he'd picked it up and stowed it in his back before the police had shown up). He held the familiar cold metal in his hands, the heaviness of it comforting. Setting it down on his bed, he pulled out his phone and sent Lestrade a short, simple text informing him that there was a dead body in Baker Street that needed removal. Then he shut it off and picked his gun back up. He held the barrel to the bottom of his chin.

            Was this a somewhat snap decision? Had this been Moran's plan: alert John that his life would forever be unsatisfactory without Sherlock and trigger John's suicide with his own? He suspected it wouldn't matter if he just did it.

            He took a deep, soothing breath, basking in the sensation. The world around his evaporated and it was just him, his bed, and his Browning. He could see nothing (though that may have been partially due to the darkness of him room), hear nothing, and sense nothing. There was nothing. Nothing but him and his choice. For the first time in a long time, he felt control. John had total control then. He could kill himself or he could allow himself to live. It was invigorating. The thrill and the rush poured adrenaline into his veins and he thought he could even sense the slightest arousal in his belly. It almost made it worth it.

            But if he put the gun down, he'd have to keep going. He'd have to keep living his life in the endless cycle of nothing.

           If he ended it now, he'd never have to worry about if his suicide was the right thing to do or not. He'd be dead.

            John swallowed hard and nodded once, closing his eyes and cocking the gun.

            "See you soon, Sherlock."

            "John, NO!"

 

_The thunder before the lightening_

 

            Someone had tackled him. Someone was tackling him, pinning him to the bed and trying to wrestle the gun from his hands.  It was so fast that even when John's eyes shot open, he could not see a thing. The darkness that had previously soothed him was now his enemy. All he could feel were hands around his, pulling the gun as far away as possible.

            "Get off me!" he yelled out, grunting under the weight of someone straddling his hips and pinning him to the bed. He thrust his pelvis up and the body above him groaned. It was a man then. He lifted his legs to try and put the man off balance, but whoever it was clearly had prepared for John's fighting technique. For the second time, John’s attacker was someone who knew him.

            The gun was torn from his fingers and he heard it be disengaged and thrown far in the room. He thought the man would stop, but he didn't.  The man grabbed both his wrists and pinned them next to his head, and he felt the man's cheek on his. John could hear him panting in exertion, the breath tickling his ear. John pushed his hips up again and the man grunted above him. The man heaved and suddenly they had moved more onto the bed, making John lose the leverage of the floor.

            "John, stop."

            No.

            That was not possible.

            Instinct kept him fighting and he threw himself into another round of it. He darted his arms straight up and the man lost his balance and fell forward on top of him. John used the momentary loss of coordination and flipped them over, pinning the man beneath him with his hips and bracing his forearm against the man's throat. Long fingers grabbed at his arm and tried pulling down, but John wasn't having it.

            "Who are you? What do you want?"

            "John."

            The word was choked out, and it had been so long, but this was the third phrase in a row where John heard it and instantly felt warmth spread through him.

            "No, I'm John. Try again."

            "John, please!"

            His eyes were filling up with inexplicable tears. He used his free arm to wipe at them before training a threatening expression. Carefully and assuredly, he reached over and flipped on the lamp on his bedside table.

            God, no.

 

_And the fear before the phrase_

            "Sherlock."

            He did not pose it as a question. Before he could understand any of it, he felt his knuckles connect with Sherlock's face. Then again. And again. Sherlock lay there, taking the hits, with a look of unfathomable relief rather than pain.

            The tears that had come up earlier were pouring down his cheeks full force then. He stopped hitting Sherlock and just breathed heavily over top of him. This was impossible. Yet, here he was.

            He looked at Sherlock's face and felt his breath stop short. The blood was started to appear where John had hit him. Sherlock turned his head back to look at John and the blood ran across his face.

            It was the most shocking visual effect. Sherlock looked exactly as he had when he was lying on the sidewalk that day in front of St. Bart's. It was as if the past year and a half hadn't happened and Sherlock had gone straight from the pavement to the bed. He even looked as dead as he had that day.

            John wept.

            When he came to, he was lying on Sherlock, his head on the mattress and next to Sherlock's. His fingers rested on Sherlock's hips, thumbs in his belt loops. There were hands on his back running up and down or in circles and whispers in his ear. Sherlock was trying to tell him it was all right, even though it obviously wasn't.

            John lifted his head enough to look him in the eyes and then promptly let his lips fall onto Sherlock's.

            The raw energy was met with passion as Sherlock's hands went from comforting to possessive. Sherlock grabbed at him, one hand on the back of John's head and the other pressing hard on his back. Their mouths opened and there was a click of teeth that made both men shudder before John lapped at Sherlock's tongue and all further noises were the rustle of clothing. Sherlock tasted of blood and cigarettes and John suspected it was the best thing he had ever had the pleasure of sampling.

            Thinking Sherlock would be taken aback by John's sudden attack, he was surprised at the ferocity in which Sherlock kissed him back. It was needy and desperate. Funny enough, it matched John's pace exactly. Sherlock was growing hard beneath John, which made him shift his hips, not helping in the slightest. John was already in a state of arousal, so he purposely rutted against Sherlock's pelvis and the feeling of their erections pressed against each other made both men groan into the other's mouth.

            John disconnected his lips from Sherlock's and a broken sob came from him before he attached his teeth to Sherlock's neck.

            "I thought you said you weren't--"

            "Shut up, Sherlock."

            There would be time to talk later. For now, both men had one thing on their minds: they had to take advantage of this opportunity. Neither man was certain that this wasn't an incredibly vivid dream. Neither man wanted to risk it.

            Perhaps this was the wrong thing to do, John thought. Sherlock was back without any explanation of how or why. He had so many questions. They were "flatmates", but that was about to change, Sherlock and John a pair of pants away from being lovers. John, for the first time in his life, could think of nothing more fantastic than fucking another man into unconsciousness; to feel another man around him, running his hands along a solid, flat chest, sounded like the greatest joy he'd ever heard of. There was so much to do and discuss and truly sit down and consider. Now really was not the time for the most spontaneous sex in history.

            Then the body beneath him arched his back and moaned. 

            Sherlock was alive; what did he care?

 

_Have you ever felt this way?_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?_

            The next morning, John awoke sideways on his bed. His duvet was on the floor and the sheets were coming off the corner. The lamp on the side of the bed was on and the lamp shade was tilted. He was completely naked, his clothes strewn everywhere about one side of the room, and his whole body ached with a long forgotten type of soreness.

            Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

            Modesty be damned, John sat up and ran from his room, almost falling down the stairs to get into the living room.

            Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

            He moved quickly to Sherlock's bedroom and threw it open, even checking the bathroom on his way. He walked through his room and into the adjoining bathroom.

            Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

            John's hands flew to his head and he started hyperventilating. He looked down at the floor and began reasoning with himself.

            It had not been a dream. Even apart from his state of nakedness, there was too much physical evidence to prove that it was real. His body was creaking after having been used for activities better suited for younger men, he had marks on his skin where someone had dug their fingernails into his thighs while sucking his cock (they had awoken once during the night at the same time and had been so ungodly relieved that they had gone another round). There were bite marks, too. Sherlock was possessive, it seemed, continually muttering the phrase "mine" or "my John" over and over.

            Apart from that, there was John's emotional and mental state. Sherlock may not have been visible, but John's heart felt altered in a way that would not have been possible had it been just a dream. He felt almost whole for the first time in so long. There was a fluttering in his chest, likely from disbelief, from realizing he had dared to kiss Sherlock at all.

            Sherlock was alive and he was back.

            The only question was where he was now.

            John ran to his phone to find a text message from Sherlock.

            I could not have imagined a better welcome home gift than what you have given me. Thank you. I owe you so much. –SH

            John stared at the message blankly for a few seconds. What did that even mean? He ran his fingers through his hair. Five seconds later, panic swept through him.

            Was that it? Was Sherlock going to come back again? Or had that been it?

            He instantly sent a reply:

            You are coming back, right? JW

            For several hours, there was nothing.

 

_Your whole life waiting on a ring to prove you're not alone._

            John paced the floor, calling into work sick. For some reason, his manager did not ask why. She had actually said "I understand" and hung up, which didn't make any sense at all. He had since dressed, risking a shower as well (though, that was necessary, as his face and other various body parts had dried blood on them).

            There was a knock at the door and John raced down the stairs to throw the door open, only to find another man he hadn't spoken to in a year and a half.

            "You're not the Holmes I'm looking for," he said resolutely and began to close the door, only to have it stopped by an umbrella. He huffed.

            "It's not even cloudy."

            "Dr. Watson, I believe we should talk."

            "I believe I don't want to."

            "I insist, and considering I am the reason Detective Inspector Lestrade did not barge into your flat last night, I believe I’ve earned it.”

            John clenched his jaw but finally stepped aside. Mycroft strode in all too comfortably. Out of a reflex, John offered him tea.

            "Actually, yes, that would be appreciated," Mycroft accepted and took a seat in John's chair. He set his brolly aside and fixated his gaze on the empty chair in front of him.

            "Oh, Sherlock," he began speaking, and John could not help but attune his ears, "what have you done?"

            John came back in a little while later with the tea, which he was politely thanked for. He leaned against the table, not wanting to sit in a chair that had remained untouched by anyone for so long, especially not when its rightful owner had turned out to be alive.

            "What is it you wanted, Mycroft?"

            A few seconds passed and Mycroft was ever focused on the empty space.

            "My brother, it seems, is alive."

            "I've gathered that much for myself."

            "And then some," Mycroft turned his head to shoot John a very accusatory smirk, his eyebrow raising as he looked at a spot on John's neck. John, in turn, pulled up the collar to his shirt.

            "You didn't know?" John asked, surprised at Mycroft's ignorance. If anyone would know, he would think it would have been him.

            "No."

            "Odd."

            "Yes. Even stranger than that is the list of people who did."

            John's stomach turned. People had known, but not him. Not John.

            "That list would include?"

            "Irene Adler."

            John's mouth fell open.

            "Irene Adler? But she's--"

            "I am afraid that one of my statements to you from years ago has come out to be applicable doubly so in these past few weeks."

            "Which is?"

            Mycroft had a soft smile.

            "It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and fool me he has. Here I thought Sherlock and Ms. Adler to be dead and neither of them were."

            "Irene helped him, then?"

            "She has a special skill in concealment. I can only suspect it was too easy for her to assist a dead man in hiding as well."

            Irene had helped Sherlock, then. Suddenly, John felt ill. The night before, John had taken Sherlock within an inch of his life and had not even stopped to consider that Sherlock might have been inexperienced. However, he hadn't seemed to be inexperienced in the slightest. John's stomach clenched. Had that been because someone had already shown him the ropes? Not for the first time in his life, John became jealous of Irene Adler.

            "I see you are not happy with that."

            "Obviously. Why didn't he tell me?"

            "Your protection," Mycroft looked surprised, "honestly, John, my brother cares for you a great deal. He would never do anything to put you in the way of death, unless you are both running towards it. But if he saw no way out and only one way to protect you, he clearly took it. If this meant keeping you in the dark, then it must have been necessary."

            "I mourned him, Mycroft. You mourned him."

            "The confidence I have in my brother has increased dramatically of late. I have no doubt that our suffering was significantly less than it could have been had we known he was alive."

            "So you're totally okay with what he put us through?"

            Mycroft narrowed his eyes and shot him a very sinister smile.

            "Not at all."

            That was comforting.

           "My brother is a different man, now, John. He is still Sherlock, but he has changed. As have you. I suggest taking the time to talk to him next time you two are alone."

            John felt warm under his collar.

            "I was a little bit--"

            "Please, my dear Watson, spare me the details," Mycroft rubbed his temple and John smirked.

            "Right."

            There was another knock at the door and both men turned towards the stairs.

            "Do be open and honest with each other. I'd very much like for you two to work this out and get back to some state of equilibrium. For all our sakes."

            John nodded and Mycroft rose from his chair, buttoning himself up and walking down the stairs.

            When he opened the door, Sherlock was surprised but did not look upset. Instead, his jaw set to try and look strong, but his eyes were soft.

            "Mycroft."

            "Sherlock."

            They stared at each other and John realized he was witnessing an entire conversation between them. He looked away, feeling intrusive.

            "Little brother, I am sure you'll make the right apologies to Mummy."

            "Of course."

            "Good day, then." Mycroft said to both of them and then walked away, a black car pulling to the kerb immediately. It drove away quickly, leaving Sherlock and John behind.

            Sherlock did not move, which was a blessing as John did not know what to do from that point. He was aware that, only the night before, he'd been entwined in this man's arms. He knew that the usual protocol after fucking someone ruthlessly was to invite them in for tea if they happened to stop by the next morning.

            This, however, was not usual.

            Sherlock was a mask of indifference, staring at John and clearly trying to gauge what John was thinking. Instead, John ended the mystery for him:

            "I'm not sure whether to let you in or not. It's been a very long time and I honestly don't know what to think or how to feel about it."

            The façade somewhat broke and Sherlock's eyes went softer than was normal.

            "I've hurt you," he said, "badly. Possibly beyond repair."

            "Possibly."

            Sherlock took a small step forward, and then his hand slowly started reaching up. John held still. Sherlock's fingers rested on John's cheek.

 

_Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?_

"It was not my intention to make you emotional," Sherlock said quickly. 

            John closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

            "I know. But there is so much I don't know."

            "Like what?" Sherlock was quick to ask. John scoffed.

            "It's not that easy."

            Sherlock removed his hand from John's face, though both men did not approve of this action. It seemed like the right thing to do, however, and neither man made their complaint verbal.

            "I will have much to explain."

            "Honestly, Sherlock, that will be the simplest bit of all of this. Telling me how you did it is not going to be much of a problem, except it'll tell me exactly how long you deceived me."

            Sherlock grimaced and sighed.

            "It is my hope that we do not spend too long of a time with you shooting bitter and snarky comments at me in some sort of revenge."

            John's eyes went wide and he felt entirely indignant.

            "You...you saw me last night! You saw how far I was...how dare you?"

            "John," Sherlock gave him a look of pity that John was already too familiar with, but coming from Sherlock it was even worse.

            "John, I did see you. I recognize that my absence was incredibly difficult. I also can see that my fraudulent suicide was also harmful to your psyche. Despite this, I stand by what I did. My actions were justified and they were to protect you. Keeping you safe was my ultimate goal, and therefore I will make no apologies for it."

            John kept his eyes at the ground. After all this time and all he'd been through, Sherlock did not even seem to be bothered by it.

            "That being said," Sherlock continued, "I believe we have much more to discuss than that. It will begin at the end, as I have been unable to function in seeing you with your own gun ready to end your life, and I would like to understand your motives."

            John huffed out a laugh.

            "I hardly know you, Sherlock, and you barely know me. I'm not the same."        

            "If you think this deters me in the slightest, you are mistaken. We're both damaged and broken; even I can see that. We are not beyond help. As we have done in the past, I believe we will mend each other. If I can observe that, then surely you can. Now, would you let me upstairs? It would be best to begin this process as soon as possible."

            John's eyes swept over Sherlock. This was not happening. How could Sherlock be so nonchalant about this ordeal?

            "This is not going to be a pretty conversation," John told him, "it’s going to be ugly and unbalanced. We're going to say things we don't mean and get our words wrong. Nothing is going to disappear in one conversation. I'm still going to be angry with you, no matter what your intentions were. I'm not going to be able to trust you for a while, too. You know that, right?"

            "Of course," Sherlock stepped even closer, his hand back on John's jaw, "You will still have post-traumatic stress disorder, severe depression, and increasing trust issues. Similarly, I am not going to trust myself when I see you, as I had enough hallucinations in the desert to not believe my own eyes. I am also now on detox, as in my own struggles I slipped and used again, so there will be danger nights. I will be clingy and ridiculously sentimental for some time, and we both know that's hardly me. It is going to take time for us to return to anything resembling normalcy, but that's just fine with me. I will have you in my life, and that is all that matters. It is what I fought for.”

            John was crying despite himself. He knew anyone could see them standing there, Sherlock desperately close and touching, but he couldn't be arsed about it.

            "None of this is going to be pretty."

            "No, not at all. I am prepared for this ugly ordeal. Though I think I can live with it if we keep up the angry sex. A very unexpected development, but absolutely welcome."

            Sherlock smiled. John laughed. John took his hand and welcomed the odd man home.

 

_Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_It's only half past the point of oblivion_

            The two of them were somewhat like a teetering bomb, balanced on the tip of a double-edged sword. If the next few weeks went too far one way, not only would everything collapse and explode into something unrecognizable, but there would be so many slices and cuts along the way that, by the end, they would beg for the detonation. 

            There was talking and tea. Sherlock was more prepared than John in the talking, having been ready for such a thing for over a year. John was always prepared with tea. Sherlock’s advantage of knowing he was going to return in itself irked John to no end. He’d had the security of a promised resurrection. John had considered the situation dead.

            Sherlock did not relinquish physical contact with John for the first few days. At any point, he was touching John. There could be a hand on his arm, fingers on his neck, a head in his lap, a body on top of his. It all depended on how John moved. When John moved, Sherlock moved with him, like his own little moon. John found the analogy ironic and perfect for two reasons, the first being that Sherlock would not understand it. The second reason was that it had always been John that had "orbited" around Sherlock, and yet here they were now in the opposite position.

            Also, sporadically, Sherlock and John would kiss each other. It was not anything heart-stopping or breathtaking. They would just press a kiss somewhere on the other person, from hair to hand to lips to cheek to shoulder and, once, calf. Each kiss would somehow relieve and build tension. It was both frustrating and glorious.

            Honesty became the concrete best policy. They hid nothing from each other. They displayed their souls in ways one only did to a journal.

            Then they stopped for the day. John simply stood up and told Sherlock no more. He reached his hand out to Sherlock, who looked adorably surprised, and led him to his room.

            They slept together in John's bed under the warm duvet with their arms around each other. Until, of course, Sherlock began moving in his sleep and nearly broke John's nose during a fit. John hoped that this newly discovered sleeping habit was temporary, or else they might have to sleep in their own beds. He told this to Sherlock in the morning.

            "Not an option; I'll get us a king size."

            That was that.

_The hourglass on the table_

"Does anyone know you're alive?" John asked and Sherlock looked away.

            "Do you mean have I told them or did they know?"

            "Both."

            "Only two people knew I was alive. I suspect you know that one of them was Irene Adler."

            John's teeth ground together as he pushed back his unnecessary jealousy.

            "I thought so," Sherlock smirked.

            "The other?"

            Here, Sherlock fussed with his cuppa and took several deep breaths.

            "I am afraid to tell you."

            "It'd be easier if you just did. I really don't--"

            "Molly."

            There was a beat.

            "Molly?"

            "Yes."

            "Molly Hooper?"

            "I needed her to assist me in faking my death. She had to know."

            "She...she never said anything!"

            "Despite her having been in a mock-relationship with Moriarty, he seemed to believe that she did not mean anything to me and let her slip under his radar. He was right in doing so, as at the time she had done just that. I had paid her no mind. Here she had spent most of her time helping me, and I had emotionally toyed with her and hurt her repeatedly. However, it ended up working nicely for me and I have since repaired that friendship."

            John said nothing for a few moments.

            "...Molly?"

            Sherlock rolled his eyes.

            The conversation turned to how they were going to reveal that Sherlock was alive. The press would go mad. Lestrade would shoot him. Mrs. Hudson might have a heart attack.

            They decided to wait until they had a solid plan of action. John wanted to wait because he wanted to make sure that it did not scar any of their friends. Sherlock wanted to wait because he wanted more of the uninterrupted time with John.

            John would probably never comprehend it, but Sherlock did not need anyone but John and would not for some time. Even he knew that was selfish. He could not be bothered about it.

 

_The walk before the run_

The pattern continued for nearly a week before it started slowing down. The long conversation went silent, and instead they simply roamed about the flat, keeping to themselves until a question came up. Sherlock had gotten over his need to constantly be in contact with John, comforted in the feeling of his presence alone. 

            By accident, the first person that found out Sherlock was alive was the Chinese take-out delivery boy Jake. He'd been running the same route for years and they had always had him. When John had ordered for himself the first time after Sherlock had left, Jake had come up this door nearly in tears, saying that his bag felt too light. When the knock came at the door and John had opened it, the delivery boy had given him the oddest look.        

            "You ordered his meal, you know."

            John had went still and then smiled, licking his lips nervously.

            "Oh did I? Wow, it has been a while since I've--"

            "He's alive, isn't he?"          

            John was unsure of how to answer when he felt Sherlock come up behind him. He turned to see Sherlock smirking as he reached out and took the bags from Jake's arms. The wide smile the boy had was infectious and John was smiling with him.

            "Thank you, Jacob," Sherlock nodded his head and then turned back around. He got an enthusiastic nod in return.

            "On me, guys." Jake said, even when John argued.

            "Hell no, you're not paying,” Jake insisted, “That is a celebratory meal. I knew he'd come back, I just knew it!"

            Jake had practically bounded off the porch and ran to his car. John was smiling widely. He knew no one else would be as thrilled about it, but it had been a blessing.

            John walked up the stairs to see Sherlock setting their food on the kitchen table and something overtook him. He reached around Sherlock to grab the food and placed it in the fridge.

            "John, what are you doing? It's perfect and hot! Why are spoili--"

            John cut him off with a look. Sherlock saw the hunger in John's eyes, but knew it most certainly was not a craving for Chinese food.

            "John," he almost gasped as the man walked right up to him and backed him against the kitchen table.

_The breath before the kiss_

It started with hands. John trailed them up Sherlock's sides and back down, then had them run over Sherlock's chest and neck. He brought them up to Sherlock's collar and started undoing the buttons slowly, one by one, sliding each out of place. The shirt flew open with each one released, undoubtedly thankful for the relief. John began nipping and sucking at the flesh he exposed. Sherlock's head fell back and his long neck relinquished itself for the taking. John happily obliged. Sherlock sighed at the feeling when suddenly John seemed to find a spot, the corner of Sherlock's jaw, that made him collapse upon himself. He gripped at John.

            "Ah, that..." Sherlock huffed out, "that's..."

            "Is it?" John asked before latching himself onto the same spot. Sherlock moaned.

            Sherlock gripped his fingers around John's hips before sliding his hands up to get rid of John's clothing. Bare-chested, John looked unnatural to him, and yet still perfect. He reached down and unbuttoned John's trousers as well, pushing them down just far enough to reveal the startling red pants beneath them.

            "Bit eccentric, don't you think?"

            "Shut your mouth. They're pants."

            Sherlock grabbed John's hips again and brought their lower bodies together. Their cocks had just barely touched, but it made John arch and rut into Sherlock.

            "Frottage."

            "What?"

            "The word is frottage. When you rub your penis against another man's through clothing, it's--"

            "Sherlock, seriously, I don't care what it's called. Just do it again."

            "As you wish."

            Sherlock guided John's hips up and down, trying to maintain his thoughts as John's hands wandered over his body. They squeezed his flesh whenever Sherlock moved them together and then scratched at his shoulder blades when Sherlock pushed the pants down to press skin on skin.

            "Fuck, Sherlock," John breathed out and then met his eyes.

            They took a moment to gather enough oxygen to last them at least a year before both of them moved to kiss the other. This kiss was much different than the others had been over the week. It was hot and needy and wanton, and it made both of them groan.

 

_and the fear before the phrase_

John maneuvered himself out of his trousers and socks and pants, trying not to think about how he was bent down near Sherlock's cock. Then again, that was the point, wasn't it? He swallowed his hesitation and anxiety and leaned forward to give a tentative lick. 

            Sherlock, both shocked and pleased, hissed and his hand shot out to grab John's shoulder.

            "Don't," he warned, "we'll have time for all the foreplay later. I need you now."

            There was no arguing with that. John righted himself and then pulled down Sherlock's pants. He got them down to his calves before using extra bodily force to set Sherlock on the table. Sherlock eyed the various items on the surface. John glared and then swept them all onto the floor, causing a loud crash.

            "Mrs. Hudson might have heard that," Sherlock pointed out.

            "She's heard a lot worse banging about," John informed him. Sherlock knew that meant something, but now was not the time to ask. He wiggled his legs to make his pants fall to the floor, but they hooked around one of his ankles. John either did not notice or care, because he moved forward between his legs and attacked his mouth.

            Their naked bodies pressed against each other made the two men moan and grunt and grip the other. There were hands everywhere, exploring each inch. It was new and exciting, and both of them were mesmerized by the discoveries made. John's hand reached down to bring their cocks together, sliding them between his hand. Sherlock's head fell back and he actually whined. John used the opportunity to start preparing him. Sherlock lay back on the table and allowed himself to get used to the intrusion.

            After managing two digits, John slicked his fingers with his own precome and then placed three in and expertly pressed against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock bucked forward, making a rather undignified sound, and his back arched.

            "Yes, John, good. You've done well, doctor. Far better at prep than last time. Now, for the love of God, fuck me."

            It was all John needed. He lined himself up and then pushed into Sherlock. Both of them made noises of contentment as John filled him inch by tantalizing inch. Sherlock felt beyond words as John's hips made contact with his. John moved back and then in again a few times, but Sherlock grew impatient.

            "You do understand what 'fuck me’ means, don't you?"

            John stood up straight and then grabbed Sherlock's hands. Slowly, taunting and teasingly, he brought both of them over Sherlock's head and turned them so that Sherlock could grab onto the edge of the table.

            "Hold on," he ordered him and then stood back up. Still connected with Sherlock, he put both hands on Sherlock's hips and pulled out slightly.

            Without any other say so, he drove back into Sherlock with unrelenting force. Sherlock gave a cry he would later be ashamed of and John did it again. He fucked Sherlock with such intensity that both men started getting very vocal. Moans and groans and screams and grunts and even a few whimpers could easily be heard. The table scraped at the floor and Sherlock thought he might break the edge where he was gripping. They were both going to have bruises from where their bodies collided as John rammed into him, unrelenting and unforgiving.

            Sherlock brought his hand down to stroke himself as he felt John get erratic. He didn't need to say anything, as they both knew, but he knew it would help.

            "John, I'm...I'm going to..."

            "Come for me, Sherlock."

            It was all both of them needed. That, and the moment when John hit right home and Sherlock’s sight went blurry.

            Sherlock bent upwards and streaked his stomach, chest, and neck with his own come. John took a few more hard thrusts before he spilled into Sherlock, which made both of them shudder pleasantly. The aftershocks made both of them twitch. John stayed buried in Sherlock for a few moments. They did not move, trying to collect their strength and breathe steadily. John thought his heart might give out.

            When John let go of Sherlock, his fingers ached and Sherlock felt like he'd been wearing a corset. There would be massive, handprint bruising. John felt guilty. Sherlock couldn't wait. He had been taken forcefully and completely by John. John, his flatmate, friend, and now lover.

            Finally, John used a wash cloth to wipe himself off. It was rather sensual as he slowly did the same for Sherlock. Then he helped him stand, which was harder than they thought and required the wash cloth again for Sherlock's leg. They moved to the couch. John lay down and brought Sherlock on top of him, pulling the blanket over their bodies.

            There was silence for a while as both of them basked in the afterglow and listened to each other breathe. However, John felt Sherlock's heart beat increase randomly. He ran his fingers through the curls.

            "Sherlock?"

            "I love you, John."

            His heart seemed to stop.

            "I was cautious on saying it aloud, but I do love you. I have for some time."

            John grinned uncontrollably and kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

            "I love you too, you daft git."

_Have you ever felt this way?_

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

_There you are_

            It was a surprise when it only took a year for them to settle into a habit of living. They had decided to keep Sherlock's mortality a secret, which was both vastly easy and exceedingly difficult. John did all of the shopping and when Sherlock wanted out, there was a required disguise of some kind. They thought about moving, but Sherlock wouldn't have it. Instead, they kept the people that knew to a low three: Irene, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft did not count, according to Sherlock, as he discovered it on his own. Mrs. Hudson, regrettably, had found out as well. It turned out that when two men engaged in rambunctious sex and didn't keep quiet about it, the neighbors were able to deduce what was going on.

            The argument on whether to tell Lestrade went on for days. Sherlock had not wanted to tell him. John had. However, it became obvious that telling him would not have as many benefits as it did risks. Then it became a conversation. Sherlock would be wanted for something or other and Lestrade had already felt he'd betrayed him once. They had decided not to make Lestrade feel obligated to do his job. He didn’t need to think he had stabbed Sherlock in the back again.

            Instead, Sherlock had written a note, saying he did not blame Lestrade for doing his job and that he was a noble and decent man and that he was everything Sherlock wished he could be. John had delivered it as if he had just discovered it and then offered to help out on more cases (sneaking Sherlock onto crime scenes later and giving him all of the details; sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't). Lestrade had been visibly relieved, almost crying in public, but had pushed it back and told John he would absolutely love his help.

            If Lestrade had seen the writing on the paper and instantly been able to tell that it had been written no less than an hour ago, he didn't mention it John. Let them have their secrets. He had his own, after all, and Molly was keeping more quiet than he knew as well, despite their current relationship.

            The calendar on the wall had been changed and they were almost to a year and three months since Sherlock’s return. They really were coming along nicely. Sherlock being a secret only added to the excitement of their lives, and whenever they needed an adrenaline kick, they would plan a trip for themselves. It was so easy to live that way that sometimes John thought it was all too good to be true.

            Then, of course, Sherlock would melt their dishes together testing out some chemical and John would remember that it wasn’t all roses.

             John sent Lestrade the email detailing the solution to the case he had sent him. It had been difficult for Sherlock and John to sneak onto the crime scene, but it was easier than their other option. Leaning back in his chair, he took a deep breath. Just then, his phone went off. Sherlock wanted him downstairs.

             John turned and went downstairs to the basement of 221. They had bought 221C out and turned it into Sherlock's lab of sorts. He conducted all of his experiments there and had discovered a growing passion for studying plant life. It had begun to look more like a garden than a lab.

            Sherlock texted John to hurry. John opened the door and tried not to smile too widely.

_sitting in the garden, clutching my coffee_

"I thought we might start this up," Sherlock greeted him, “enjoying a cup together.” He was sitting on a concrete bench placed in the middle of the vegetation. There were actually flowers around as well.

            "I decided to make it look nice for you. That way, it might encourage you to join me down here once in a while."

            "Is that coffee?" John asked.

            Sherlock looked down at his hands at the mug he held. He looked back up and smiled.

            "It is. And it's for you. I decided that we should have a nice little date."

            John walked forward and sat down on the bench next to Sherlock, floored by the gesture. Sherlock smiled at him and handed him his coffee.

            "Here you go, sugar."

_calling me sugar_

John blinked at the man in front of him.

            "What?"

            "What, what?"

            "What did you just say?"

            "I was handing you your coffee."

            "Yes, but what did you say?"

            "I said," Sherlock's cheeks suddenly went pink, "here you go, sugar."

_You called me sugar_

            "You called me...sugar?" John asked, trying not to laugh.

            "Yes. Isn't that what couples do? Give each other ridiculous pet names based off sweets?"

            John shook his head and laughed, kissing Sherlock and then throwing his arm around him.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

_Have you ever wished for an endless night?_

“I suppose it’s good to go out on a nice, number.”           

            “Sherlock…”

            “I’m seventy-five; a much better age to go out than seventy-six. I can say I lived a quarter of a century and not be off by a year.”

"Now, you stop that. I don't want to hear it."

            Sherlock rolled his eyes and coughed.

            "Please, John. Don't be dull. I know it's tonight. I can feel it. Just make your peace with it and move on."

            John gave his husband a warm grin before running his shaking hands over Sherlock's silver curls.

            "It's from the smoking, you know."

            "I quit ages ago."

            "Yes, but you spent almost fifteen years killing your lungs. You're rather lucky it took you until seventy-five to really get the effects."

            "Cancer is boring."

            John shook his head and laughed.

            "How's the back?"

            Sherlock grimaced.

            "Hospital beds are the worst."

            "They aren't that bad."

            "How would you know?"

            "Sherlock, I worked here for twenty years. Plus, you used to put me in these things a lot when we were young."

            Sherlock smiled and John watched as he was pulled back into a memory.

            "Ah yes, back when I was a real detective."

            "Sherlock, just because you had to start doing everything from home instead of physically chasing criminals in the streets doesn't mean you were any less of a detective. You solved more cases than anyone else, possibly in history.”

            They'd had this argument before, so it ended there. They said nothing for a long time. Then Sherlock turned to him.

            "Come up here with me. I don't want to die with you just standing there."

_Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight_

It took a lot of effort for John to climb into the bed, and had he been planning to leave it, he might have declined. But he knew, and he was positive Sherlock knew, that if Sherlock was really about to go on, then John would be close behind. One did not lose his partner of over forty years and simply keep going. John had tried that once, a long time ago, and he had no plans on doing it again. Besides, he was approaching eighty and his hands no longer worked.

            All Sherlock and John had left in this life was each other. Luckily, that had been enough to keep them going. Sometimes, as he got older and his body started to fail him, Sherlock would want to end it. He loathed feeling weak and fragile. It was always John that had stopped him, whether directly by yelling at him or by simply being there.

            Now, fate had twisted its claws into Sherlock and he had no choice.

            They stayed wrapped around each other for hours. A nurse popped her head in. She saw them and made to scold them, but must have seen the involuntary tears in John's eyes. That told her all she needed to know, and she exited the room quickly. John sniffed.

            "John."

            "Hm?"

            "I love you."

            "I love you, too."

            "I'm glad we figured that out when we did. I don't want to know what this life would have been like without you."

            "Ah, you never would have made it past thirty-five."

            "Wrong. I never would have reached thirty. I was twenty-nine when you shot the cabbie."

            "Oh God, I haven't thought about that case in ages."

            "Really? I thought when a lover is dying, the other person gets nostalgic and spends time recalling their entire lives."

            John laughed again and held Sherlock as tight as he could. His arms would get tired faster, but he could hold on as long as Sherlock did.

            "Sometimes they do, but honestly I don't have to. I still have you. Each night I have you is the best night of my life."        

            "That's not true. What about the night I released all of those pigeons in the house and they practically destroyed your entire wardrobe?"

            The laughter became wheezing.

            "While that was a rather angry sort of week, it was all right in the end because I had you."

            “I believe the make-up sex didn’t hurt, either."

            “No,” John laughed, “it did not hurt at all."

            Sherlock coughed in his arms and it wracked his entire body. John rubbed his back, trying to comfort him.

            "You can go, you know. Don't stay here on my account."

            "John," Sherlock whined, "That's what I've been doing for years now."

            "Well, stop that," John joked, choking back a sob. He smiled at Sherlock and very gently pressed a kiss against his lips.

            "Now get out of here," John told him. Sherlock gave him a weak smirk and closed his eyes.

            "Is it cliché to want to make sure I say the right thing before I go?"

            "Not at all.

            "Good."

            For a few more hours, there was silence. John tried not to be tense, waiting for the flat line of the machine or the stop in Sherlock's breath. It almost made him think he would go first (which he should get to, but of course Sherlock's unhealthy habits had given him an edge), but it didn't happen that way.

            "John?"

_Have you ever held your breath_

"Yes, Sherlock?"

            "This life would have been nothing without you."

            "I would have been nothing without you."

            "John."

            "Sherlock."

            "I love you."

            "I love you."

            Sherlock, his eyes still closed, sighed and pressed closer to John.

            "There. I think we did that all right."

_and asked yourself_

            John closed his eyes, focused on the feeling of Sherlock in his arms, and didn't try to fight a contented smile. He felt Sherlock leave him before the machine confirmed it. Sherlock was gone. John did not break down, but just let a few tears spill out for good measure.

            "I think we did that better than all right, love."

 

_will it ever get better than tonight?_

John wondered what heaven would be like. He hoped Sherlock was already there waiting for him 

            In this life or the next, Sherlock and John would always be together, driving each other mad with idiotic smiles on their faces.

            John let out one final huff of laughter and gave Sherlock's lifeless body and squeeze and sighed.

            His last thoughts were hilarious visions of what Sherlock would think of the wings.

            No men had ever died happier than Sherlock and John. No men ever would.

_Tonight._

 


End file.
